


Silver Service

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Established Hartwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Servitude kink, Sexual Roleplay, Sort Of, dressing up, gratuitous double entendre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Eggsy used to pick up a bit of weekend work as a 'party host with a difference', as the website would put it, and reprises the role to fulfil his lover's curiosity."Your martini, sir."Harry, who has on six occasions had bullets removed from his body without anaesthetic,  is not sure he's ever needed a drink so badly in his life.





	Silver Service

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of fun. 
> 
> I’m suffering from… if not writer’s block then something like writer’s ennui, and getting you lovely folk involved with something I've written may be just the tonic I need. This was the closest I had to ready to roll, so I pushed myself to get it out here. I do hope you enjoy, please let me know if you do. It might just lift me out of this little fiction funk. 
> 
> Set in my usual ambiguous established-hartwin alternate canon.

It’s just about warm enough to risk sitting outside the little local independentcafe  where Harry and Eggsy have made it their habit to have Saturday morning coffee and pastries when they’re home and not  infiltrating foreign mob headquarters, or laid up in hospital beds, or visiting Eggsy’s charmingly-baffled-slash-possibly-borderline-homophobic relatives in Chelmsford. There's a good park near them and apparently Daisy’s and JB’s happiness trump all other considerations.

Just as Eggsy is sitting down with their plate of warm almond croissants  - and jam, the heathen - the ambient noise of the street is drowned out with a sudden Doppler Effect of a thumping bass beat overlaid with shrill laughter and an unmistakable catcall that is definitely aimed at one of them. Harry would put money on it being Eggsy, but probably not more than the cost of their breakfast: he’s not much of a gambler, he objectively accepts the appeal of a handsome older man in a good suit and, well, ZZ Top had been right about a few things. He watches with barely tempered horror as a Barbie pink stretch hummer rounds the corner and disappears.

“Hen party,” Eggsy observes blandly, and Harry’s a little taken aback by how immediately he realised what he was looking at when all Harry had seen was a blur of neon and waving hands. Eggsy winces over his usual black coffee as more shrieking echoes their way.  “Fuck, they’ve hit the breakfast prosecco a bit hard. that’s gonna hurt tomorrow. Hope she’s had the sense to do it a week ahead, but people usually do these days.”

He still baffles Harry, sometimes, this handsome and sensitive boy with the showstopping arse who can quote My Fair Lady but had to be taught how to knot a tie.

“And who, exactly, died and made you the expert on the matter?”

“Heh.” Eggsy stretches and rubs at the back of his neck, flushing without a trace of embarrassment, strangely. “I did a stint as a Butler in the Buff for a bit. Hen nights are like my specialist subject on Mastermind.”

Putting aside the turn up that Eggsy is in fact far more in touch with the female as a pack collective than might have been expected… and has apparently watched Mastermind, which must have finished in the early nineties, surely… Harry sets his perfectly passable latte down and steels himself.

“Excuse me.” He raises his eyebrows and sits forward. “You were a _what_?”

“A Butler in the Buff! Don’t tell me you ain’t seen ‘em.”

Harry has not, in fact, even heard the term but he has a suspicion it might follow the old Ronseal rule: _does exactly what it says on the tin,_ and doesn’t that raise a number of interesting questions, some beautiful images and possibly something else. Eggsy as a butler is one thing, Eggsy ‘in the buff’ is quite another and Harry is having trouble parsing the two in any way that makes sense other than Eggsy waiting on someone hand and foot for a living _with no clothes on_ and really, he has no right to the stirring his cock attempts considering they'd had sex that morning, nevertheless it persists.

Eggsy, in spite or perhaps because of the fact he has undoubtedly noticed the look on Harry’s face, is not going to leave him to wonder about it.

“You know. Hunks for hire!” Did the word hunk not fall out of fashion about twenty years ago? Harry has deliberately refrained from using it, not that there’s a lot of call to, and hearing Eggsy announce it as though he’s reading out the advert is decidedly jarring. “Mostly hen parties. Some charity nights and corporate dos, you know.” Scooting his chair across the pavement and somehow, mercifully, managing to avoid making that horrid scraping noise as he does so, Eggsy comes to sit next to Harry rather than opposite and splits a croissant, leaning in so that Harry’s hand brushes the outside of his thigh, as though Harry had put his drink down specifically for that purpose. “Fortieth Birthday parties for liberated divorcees. You know how it is.”

“I'm quite sure I don't.” Harry is beginning to put together a picture, and he isn't totally sure he likes it. Well, the picture itself is forming the ghost of an enjoyable shape: Eggsy in any state of undress is always a pleasant thing to call to mind and the idea of him parading in front of a party of eager women for tips or applause or whatever the deal was stirs some hot blend of pride and jealousy that Harry has trouble keeping from his face.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Eggsy laughs at him, the way he always does: at Harry’s oddly narrow band of experience and his strangely placed sensibilities. Harry’s the sort of man who’s eaten escargot in La Gavroche but had never been in a Nandos and Eggsy finds his peculiar naivety quite charming, or so Harry hopes. In any case, he seems to enjoy enlightening his out of touch old boyfriend and considering the current topic implies him strutting about naked Harry’s quite happy to concede the expertise on this one, and see where it takes him.  “It’s just party hosting. S’good money for making sure you stay trim, getting your kit off and getting your arse felt up by middle aged women. It was a laugh and I needed the cash at the time.”

Harry can see that very clearly, very suddenly: Eggsy’s young, fit, gymnast’s body, gleaming in someone’s ikea-moodlit living room packed full of shrieking giggles; fetching drinks and greeting guests, forever with a strategically placed tray or bottle to preserve his modesty _in Harry’s own imagination_ , _for god’s sake_ , which is in itself bizarre: he’s had the pleasure of seeing Eggsy naked on a near daily basis for the best part of two years, so why his mind has decided to spare his blushes now is anybody’s guess. Perhaps it’s to distract Harry from the less appealing implications of this new information.

“You’ll forgive me if this is starting to sound remarkably like prostitution…”

“Ohhh no, none of that. All strictly above board.” The fact that this is clearly a point that needs making is not lost on either of them, but Eggsy has a chuckle about it. Sucks his teeth and looks off to the side shiftily. “Well, you might score the occasional tenner for copping off with the mother of the bride, but extras were an absolute no. No.” He seems to go somewhere in his mind momentarily and comes back with a grimace and a shudder. Consoles himself with more croissant. “No.”

Well, that’s a relief. Harry thinks. Is it? Yes, the appeal which he is grudgingly having to acknowledge as it spreads through his body, warming him core out, seems mostly to be in that he gets to put his hands on what others have paid for the privilege of just _looking_ at. And rightly so, because… well, look at him. Fortunately the going rate for eyeing up Eggsy’s naked form seems to have been waived in his case or Harry would have been - happily - bankrupted some time ago. The boy grins at him and it’s obvious he knows what he’s started: they lean together almost in unison because whilst there's technically nothing wrong with having this conversation in public in broad daylight, it's beginning to feel like there might be.

“So what exactly _do_ these slavering mobs of women pay their... _hunks du jour_ for the pleasure of?”

“To stand around and look fit, mostly?” Eggsy shrugs, shoves a bit of jam laden pastry in his mouth and carries on talking around it. Infuriating, and yet strangely appealing when that pink tongue flicks to his lips to catch a sticky crumb.  “I dunno, you’re basically a stripogram except you don’t start with much to take off. You don’t do a lot.  Hand out drinks, greet people at the door, take coats…”

“How demeaning.” Harry absolutely does not feel all the blood rush to his cock at the idea of Eggsy waiting on a dinner party at home so obediently -  at all, let alone in the nude -  so that everyone gets a good eyeful of what Harry has to look forward to in his bed at the end of the night.  And if he does, then all the better, it might cool his face down a bit. There’s enough of a breeze blowing that they have to weigh their serviettes down under plates so hopefully his lack of composure looks as though it might be wind chill.

He prepares a corner of croissant and aims for ‘disdainful’. It might come across as snobbery, if he wasn’t so confident Eggsy can see right through him at all times.  “And is this a highly qualified position, or is the training on the job?”

Eggsy smirks at him fondly, still chewing, so he's obviously got the measure of Harry's interest in the topic. “Well it ain't silver service, there’s no real skill set other than being ripped…” Harry could actually curse his eyes for flicking down Eggsy’s body entirely without his say-so, and of course Eggsy notices but he’s enough of a gentleman to let it go. “As long as you don’t look like the wrong end of  two-eleven bus and you spend three quarters of your life in the gym you’re golden. You just run some silly party games, learn to make all the cocktails with dodgy names, they're mostly ready mixed anyway-”

“ _Dodgy_?” Harry knows a gambit when he’s heard one. It might have taken him an embarrassingly long time to twig that Eggsy was as interested in him in the first place, mostly because he kept suspecting himself of wishful thinking, but the art of flirtation hasn’t suddenly been invented since he was last in the game, thank you very much. He risks a mouthful of his drink, keeping his eyebrows raised in question as he swallows it.  “Such as?”

“Sex on the beach is a classic, innit? Vodka, peach schnapps, orange and cranberry. A Slow Comfortable Screw is Southern Comfort, galliano, gin and orange… ” Eggsy has apparently not forgotten his repertoire, although Harry can’t imagine anyone was ever likely to be a stickler for when a mixer should have been soda instead of lemonade with Eggsy’s mouth wrapping itself around dirty words and handing it to them shirtless. They sound hideous, anyway, but Harry would drink a coupé of petrol under the circumstances.

“... Or was that a Screaming Orgasm? One of them’s pineapple juice. Not sure it mattered. _Blowjobs!_ \- ”

Harry chokes on his coffee. Eggsy either doesn’t notice, in his sudden enthusiasm, or was aiming for that anyway.

“... Tia Maria, Baileys, whipped cream, in a shot glass and you're supposed to drink it without using your hands.” Why such a recipe exists is a more pressing question than how it came to be named, and it speaks volumes of Eggsy’s boredom with the entire rigmarole that he doesn't even snigger at it and is already over Harry’s near spit take, lost in reminiscing . “Honestly, between that and the party games you could easily get through five cans of squirty cream in a week. The agency paid for it all though, so I call bullshit they didn't know how lairy it got sometimes.”

Harry tries to quell both of his instinctive reactions to the idea of desperate menopausal women licking dessert topping off Eggsy’s gorgeous bare body.  He'd been what, nineteen? Twenty? It was positively perverse. It was exploitation, horrendously predatory, and Harry is also tremendously jealous because he did not have the pleasure at the time, and absolutely thrilled by the glee of his own victory in getting to take that much-worshipped body home and do what the paying customers could only dream of.

So naturally his reaction, partly to cover his disgust at himself, is to be pedantic. He scoffs, dabbing at his mouth with a serviette.

“You can't abide cream.”

“Yeah, wonder why that is!” Harry just looks blank. “It's impossible to wash out and it stinks.” Eggsy makes a disgusted face. “Get it on your jacket on the way home and spend the rest of the week trying to work out why you smell like a Dairylea Dunker. No thanks.”

Suddenly, Eggsy’s near visceral aversion to the stuff makes a great deal of sense.

Unfortunately, where that has never been a problem in the past, Harry now has a very real need to draw silly patterns on his naked form with it, _lots of it,_ possibly anoint the whole mess with a couple of well placed glacé cherries and clean up every smear with his mouth. He wonders if getting a dairy free substitute might alleviate Eggsy’s objections, then he wonders if such a thing actually exists, and then he wonders when he became such a parody of a desperate old pervert.

It’s Eggsy’s fault, really. Eggsy himself is almost a parody of sexy…  beautiful, famously flexible, incredibly good with his hands…  Harry frequently feels like he’s being set up; finds himself entertaining a delusion that there’s some sort of hilarious candid camera show at his expense, in which the hapless and oblivious lonely old bachelor falls for the attentions of not just a muscular and painfully beautiful twenty-four year old but one who everyone is well aware happens to be able to get their feet far enough behind their head to put their soles flat on the mattress... If they happened to be doing so on a bed, obviously, but _come on_.  Eggsy is near pornographically convenient. Whatever deity Harry finds himself thanking for the way it sculpted Eggsy had obviously missed the concept of ‘less is more’ and Harry has never quite managed to mind.

Still, it's none too surprising that an agency that made its profits on hiring out dazzling eyes and cheeky smiles on top of fitness magazine posterboy bodies would snap him up.  Harry is still so giddily impressed by him, he can only imagine how one would feel getting a first glimpse of him on the doorstep having placed a more or less blind order for a bit of eye candy.

“Hang on.” Thinking about it, some basics are yet to be elaborated on. “All this… completely naked, as the moniker might imply?”

“Oh, don't be daft, that's health and safety, innit?” Eggsy’s lips purse into a teasing little quirk, chin down, eyes daring. “And there's no fun if you don't leave something to the imagination, is there?”

“Well, quite.”  

“Nah. You're in a collar,” Eggsy gestures, raises his eyebrows and his gaze to ensure Harry is watching - of course he is - and the flat of his fingers implies a collar as in from a shirt as opposed to a dog’s collar and that is not something Harry has ever pictured until that exact moment and now he has two simultaneous new fantasies to feel awful about.

“Collar, bow tie, cuffs, apron.” He takes Harry’s hand below the metal patio table and guides it just up under the edge of his shirt to lay his fingers on the smooth skin of his stomach, hot and taut from his morning workout. “Nothing else.” He leans over and puts his lips to Harry's in a soft kiss,  slow and barely there, and chuckles against his mouth when they both _hear_ Harry swallow.

Damn it all to hell.

Harry drains his coffee and puts the cup down.

“I don't suppose you'd still happen to have the outfit?” To his credit, he gives up on the pathetic attempt at nonchalance half way through the sentence.

“Oh,” Eggsy grins, dealt a winning hand  - although to Harry it frequently feels like he's just handing over the pack to the boy and letting him pick the cards out himself: Harry is helpless - . “Interested in a private booking, are we?”

Of course he bloody is.

“Thought the agency wouldn't approve of those sorts of things?”

Now, that's interesting. When did they drop into role play?  It's another cliche Harry has never felt any particular bent towards and yet here he is, unable to get up to start walking home because of the situation in his lap that has nothing to do with the pastry flakes he's managed to drop whilst he was too busy maintaining highly intellectual eye contact with the triangle of Eggsy’s chest bared by his undone shirt button.

Eggsy’s fingers walk up Harry's thigh.

“I think I can make an exception. Nice upstanding gent like you. I’m sure you’ll behave, yeah?”

If Harry’s thought it once, he’s thought it a hundred times: this boy will be the actual death of him.

Which is how Harry ends up - about a week later - fully suited in his own study, desperately pretending to be engaged in something, _anything_ other than waiting for Eggsy to make his appearance whilst he does exactly that, facing away from the door, because it wouldn’t do to ruin Eggsy’s big reveal, fiddling with some surveillance photographs that could probably do with being filed in the shredder. His pulse is pounding in his throat and his cock expresses its piqued interest at the soft huff of the door opening across the plush carpet as an insistent pulse inside his trousers.

And there Eggsy stands, naked but for the aforementioned selected highlights of a suit that Harry has deliberately avoided picturing so that he could experience the full gratification of this moment. He probably needn't have bothered.

Eggsy’s hair is gelled softly into a more casual sweep than his Kingsman-issue side part, neat but contemporary, with just enough artful movement in it to invite thoughts of messing it up entirely. Harry's fingers twitch. The coy expression says Eggsy knows how good he looks,  eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling but heavy and lips just starting to bear the hint of a knowing smirk because he isn't at all surprised by the way Harry is looking at him, or by the effort Harry has put into his own appearance for their little party, the way Harry's pristine suit contrasts so dramatically with all his skin on show. It occurs to Harry too late that suited older men were not the usual target audience, that he may have created a different scenario altogether but seeing as Eggsy obviously doesn’t mind in the slightest, they can come back to that.

The much-anticipated collar is bright white and neatly starched; the bow tie is on a clip which is wholly infuriating and yet Harry cannot bring himself to care because beneath its points is nothing but the  smooth, toned flesh of Eggsy’s defined pecs, his rock solid abs, _really_ it is just unnecessary -  unreasonable even - to have a body like that although Harry supposes he can be grateful that there's nothing covering it until he passes the soft little trail of hair below his navel to where he's thoughtfully censored by the neat black apron.

It’s inexplicably infuriating, but Harry discards that thought too. There's plenty more to look at.

Fundamentally, there’s no difference between Eggsy’s bare arms now than when he sees him in a sleeveless vest about to go out for a run, or plainly shirtless. Harry knows this, and yet somehow seeing those frankly unfair biceps and thick forearms trimmed with disembodied white cuffs - black plastic buttons, not cufflinks - makes their exposed skin obscene somehow. It draws attention to the fact there’s nothing covering so much of him, the nominal straps of fabric around wrist and neck and just enough to cover his modesty, not that anything else about Eggsy’s presentation could be read as modest.  
  
The set of his hips, in particular, seems to ask _like what you see?_ even more directly than the bow of his lips does, a nd those thighs…

Now here's a thing. Harry doesn't play favourites with parts of Eggsy, he knows full well how lucky he is and appreciates every square inch of the boy who might just be the love of his life in addition to looking like a calendar model. But he might have a slight obsession with the meaty, sturdy thickness of his thighs.  Not much. Just, say, if he had to choose a way to die, if he went rogue and they have to send Eggsy to take him down for some reason, he might have specified in writing that he'd like to have his neck snapped between those thighs if at all possible. Merlin had just laughed and submitted the note exactly as instructed. _“Yeah, mate, to be fair, in your position…”_

The apron is, of course, narrow enough that Harry can see a strip of hip down each side just to illustrate that there is nothing underneath, so that when he turns Harry will inevitably get to freely ogle his oiled up arse and that is just ridiculous.

What is also ridiculous is how hard Harry is just at the sight of him, dressed like some subservient porno fantasy it has never occurred to Harry to have, although he realises the error of that particular omission and resolves to correct it, now he has such abundant imagery... Harry may just about concede to being a snob but he's neither a saint nor an idiot.

Plus, there's a little pride there: If he ever again feels the need to doubt how deeply the changes in Eggsy are taking root he will remind himself of the fact that he'd gone to the effort of ironing his absurd little playboy bunny cuffs. He will try not to visualise the way those cuffs strain at the buttons, Eggsy so much stronger and thicker in the muscles than when he'd chucked them into a JD Sports bag under his bed, or the way the artificially white cotton sits flush against his forearm, the slight bulge of the vein there, the way the tendon flexes in his wrist as he holds out the drink not on a tray as he might have expected but delicately, steadily, by the stem of the glass, the other hand neatly held behind the small of his back.

“Your martini, sir.”

Harry, who has on six occasions had bullets removed from his body without anaesthetic,  is not sure he's ever needed a drink so badly in his life.

He gawps openly for a moment and has to wet his lips before he can manage “thank you.” Manners maketh man and all that, though there's nothing at all polite about the way he continues to devour Eggsy with his eyes. But it's obviously welcome flattery. Eggsy strolls out in front of him: Harry’s treated to a couple of seconds of dazzling profile before Eggsy turns to face him again, both hands clasped in the small of his back now, servile in every aspect apart from the absolutely shit-eating smirk on his face.

Harry takes a sip of his martini and a welcome longer look, to see that Eggsy’s skin gleams with an artificial glossy shine. Baby oil, or something like it, which is completely obscene and so cliche it's unbelievable, although classics become such for good reason: the shine of it over every curve and angle of Eggsy’s body is totally, painfully sexy. Harry is seized by the image of rutting his cock along the deep grooves of muscle, the oil slicked and shimmering trenches of Eggsy’s six pack, the generous curve of his buttocks and the creases beneath and between them. He fights not to think of Eggsy standing rubbing all that in, hands gliding over the taut, full ridges of that bare skin all the places Harry wants to put his tongue right now… Or if him fussing with his collar and cuffs, making himself neat and tidy so much like he does when he puts his suit on; of his forced deferential manner;  all those hallmarks of subservience although it's very obvious that Eggsy is the one in control here.

Because Harry had, of course, googled _Butlers in the Buff_ and found a number of conceptually similar franchises. If Eggsy was playing the role true to form the boys were very much the headline stars of the show rather than the more literal hired help, but with the novelty of your eye candy for the evening being ‘at your service’. The complete fantasy. It is horribly compelling.

Harry curses the predictability of his psyche at the way his eyes keep slipping in the oil glistening on Eggsy’s skin and ending up on the apron. He has seen the man naked hundreds of times, in every conceivable state and position; has been intimate with him in every way he can call to mind and so his imagination is not needed to fill in what's under that neatly starched oblong of black cloth, but by god he wants to take it off him.

He pops the olive from his martini in his mouth for something to suck on so that he doesn't crack his jaw.

“So.” He says around it, as casually as he can manage.  “What happens here?”

Eggsy is evidently well prepared for the question.

“It's your party. I'm here to help you have fun.”  It's just about possible that line is straight from the handbook and Harry wonders how many clients knees that's turned to jelly, however untouchable they knew he was. Moreso now. _Mine_.  “Maybe we play a game or two. Do some shots together. Have a bit of a dance, a bit of a giggle…” It ends as in a question, an invitation to fill in the blank with whatever the client desires although Harry is still  lucid enough to appreciate that whilst theirs most often remained a daydream, his will not.  Eggsy is back on script, but it doesn't matter because Harry really should have found a way to excuse himself from playing the Magic Mike drinking game with Percival because he's now imagining being dipped back in his chair and gyrated over.

...Can Eggsy even dance? Harry himself has taught him the basics of ballroom; and he’s seen Eggsy in the gym... he knows he can hang in a perfect box split with just his feet through the rings, and it really would be so unbearably smug of Harry to have that photographed in high key lighting, printed in full dramatic black and white and hung in the house but he's probably going to do it anyway. But he's not sure he's ever seen him _dance_ dance.

Harry makes a mental note to make it happen, but not now. Now It's all he can do to stay in his seat and not fuck Eggsy senseless over his desk, which whilst he probably wouldn't object to would be a terrible waste of all the effort he's spent not getting dressed up for the occasion, and what a spectacular job he hasn't done of it, too.

“So how about a game?” Eggsy prompts him, kind enough not to exploit or mock the fact that his get-up has entirely robbed Harry of the power of speech. “I’m a little short on pockets, but if you’ve got a coin we can play flip, sip or strip.”

Harry has no idea what the game entails but it sounds very, very good to him and he fumbles in his pocket for his wallet and then for a coin from the compartment inside, and offers it up.

“I flip. You call it.” Simple enough. So far, so tempting, although Harry suspects there is no version of this he would say no to.  “If you’re right, you get the coin and we swap. If you’re wrong, you drink, and I flip again. If you’re wrong twice in a row, you strip. Third time you drink _and_ strip. And we keep going like that, because you’re making me feel a bit under dressed, you get me?” Eggsy tucks two fingers under Harry's collar and runs them along, biting his bottom lip and Harry desperately hopes this was never how Eggsy’s bookings went, but he's got a lovely warm feeling in his chest, like the spread of a good whisky that this is all for him. “Talking of which, I can’t take much more off so we’ll have to think of something else if you win.”

Harry will win. He may be putty in Eggsy’s hands almost all of the time but he is so entirely voluntarily because he's a lovestruck old fool: he still has a few tricks up his sleeve. Eggsy looks at him expectantly. “If I win, will you sit on my lap?”

“And talk about the first thing that comes up?” Eggsy grins, delighted that he’s playing along. “You've not read your booking form, have you. Tut tut.”

“I rather thought that had gone by the wayside when you suggested I take my clothes off.”

Eggsy ticks his eyebrow in acknowledgement. Evidently neither of them have entirely thought this through but Harry has Eggsy standing near naked and gleaming like a Chippendale in his study, really, what the fuck is there to think about?

So in the process, Harry puts back two unwillingly quick mouthfuls of his drink, loses his tie and his jacket - tactically, of course, at least in part - before he parts Eggsy from the coin. Eggsy has to borrow a swig of his drink for want of having poured himself one, and then Harry correctly calls tails.

“I believe I win.”

“You do. But I’m thinking… I don’t want to get this stuff on your suit,” Harry’s about to protest that he’d been short-changed but he acknowledges the sense in not getting greasy, reluctantly, just as Eggsy puts a fingertip to his bottom lip and leans in with a whisper. “How about a kiss instead? Don’t tell on me. We're not allowed to do this.”

Heat bolts suddenly through Harry’s core. For fuck’s sake, why does it make his stomach flip over like that?  Harry knows it's just Eggsy, just them in the house they share every day, and yet something in his hind brain is playing along and for a moment he really feels like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, something forbidden, hot and dirty, with this gorgeous half-naked boy he’s hired an inch from kissing him even though it’s against the rules. And god, it makes him harder than he thought possible.

After a moment’s heady sharing of breath, Eggsy makes good on his wager and tilts his head, allowing Harry the upper hand in a kiss that opens tentatively, with just the suggestion of nerves to keep the act going.

For a moment Harry loses track of the game they're playing, pulls Eggsy close and really kisses him, hands roaming across the artificially buttery softness of his skin and oh that is _lovely_. There's just enough tongue in the kiss to tighten the knot of arousal low in his belly, no teeth but it’s wet and filthy and for a moment Harry is in danger of losing control or else his wits altogether.

Eggsy pulls away from him, satisfyingly breathless.

“How about I get us another drink. Something fun.”

Harry holds his lidded gaze, entirely more put together than he feels.  “Double entendre on the rocks, perhaps?”

“Oh, very good. You're getting an extra cherry just for that.” Eggsy struts in the direction of his bar kit, the globes of his arse cheeks tensing hypnotically, and picks out a couple of optic topped bottles. “But all my innuendos are pre-mixed, I’m afraid, and I ain’t got any ice, so you'll have to take what you're given.” He winks over his shoulder and Harry's brain flatlines for a moment.

He answers with a simple mumble of  “I'll let you surprise me” which is obviously what Eggsy wanted, and then he watches.

Eggsy is a buffed and servile dream, his pecs rigid and flexing as he splits measures across two matching shot glasses on a tray - something white floating atop something clear -  and drizzles something pink into the top; biceps artlessly tense as he brings the tray over on one flat hand and lays it on Harry’s desk.

“And what on earth is this monstrosity?”

“It's a slippery nipple. Go on.”

Harry is leaving that line well alone. “Is this the one you can't use your hands for?”

“No, that's the blowjob.” Of course it is. “Want to try, though? Here, I'll do it with you. Watch.”

Given an opportunity to show off, Eggsy is not known to be shy and Harry can't imagine subtelty was a suit he was encouraged to play in this role. He bends to pick up the shot glass with his mouth, flicks his head back and knocks the drink down in one, shot glass held precisely between his teeth and the column of his throat flexing as he swallows it down. Holds his hands out in a sort of _ta dah_ gesture and then has to take the shot glass from his mouth because he's laughing.

Harry cannot swallow _at all,_ which Eggsy is having none of _._

“Go on, You can do it. Get the glass between your teeth and just throw it back.”

Despite the look of challenge it's obvious that this is a thing Harry is going to be at least attempting to do, by god he is too old for this shit, but he doesn't resist it with anything more than a huff and a roll of his eyes. Eggsy strides to stand beside him and gently just takes Harry's hands behind his back, a reminder without any hint of actual restraint, and it's vaguely humiliating in a way  that makes the pool of heat low in Harry's belly bubble and when Eggsy ducks him gently towards the shot glass on the tray, his hard cock jabs him insistently in the stomach. It's most disconcerting when he's trying to seal his lips around a highly dubious shooter and tip it back without making a mess, but he manages it, somehow, with a reasonable amount of dignity and then - more admirably - keeps the bloody thing down without choking or throwing it straight back up. It burns all the way down, and tastes like curdling licorice. Revolting.

“What…” He coughs dryly once he's lowered the glass back to the tray, and Eggsy laughs at him. “What the fuck was in that? “

“Not another one of them then, nah? I don't like sambuca either.” He could've fooled Harry: Eggsy’s shot had gone down as smoothly as if it was water. Not so much as a wince, and that brings an unwelcome flush of heat at the idea of him drunk and pliable, out for the sort of good time that begins with obnoxious shots and ends with him lax and easy in Harry’s bed, laughing and suggestible. “But we gotta have something to get rid of the taste. Tequila?” Harry shakes his head emphatically, still recovering. “How about that blowjob? “

“I thought you hated cream.”

Eggsy arches a sharp eyebrow and takes a step forward, closing the space between them and oh. Harry’s walked right into that one.

“I do.” Eggsy’s voice drops. “Good job I ain't got any, innit?” He grabs at Harry's tie and wraps it around his fist, pulling up just hard enough to guide him to stand. There's a hint of a kiss but it's mostly Eggsy eye level with Harry's mouth and looking heatedly downwards as he finds Harry's belt buckle and the zip of his fly, letting his fingertips drag over the searing press of Harry's erection as he gently tugs it down.

“And I kind of like to use my hands. Cheating, I know, hope you don't mind.”

Harry groans, and he'd like that to be in exasperation at the cheesiness of Eggsy’s lines but it isn't, it's pure pent up want, suddenly catching up and robbing him of all higher function. Usually when the mood strikes they're all over each other in minutes - the joy of a lover barely out of their teens, _fucking hell Hart you lucky bugger -_ and it's so, so long since he's been teased and kept titillated like this that he aches for Eggsy, for the touch of him, for his mouth apparently if he's about to make good on his admirable string of puns. Harry wants to join in, to make a crack about being sure there'll be nothing wrong with his blowjob despite missing those crucial ingredients but his brain doesn't supply him with that punchline until much too much time has elapsed and he just lets it go.

Where he had perhaps expected Eggsy to sink to his knees, he in fact turns them to press Harry against his desk, settling him back to perch on the ledge of it, and plonks his round, oiled up arse down in the office chair between Harry’s thighs. That'll be a bugger to get clean but he's too amused by the idea of trying not to blurt how the marks got there to grouse about it, and then Eggsy swirls a decadent lick around the head of Harry's cock, looks up at him, and nothing worth complaining about has ever happened in Harry Hart’s entire life.

He can read enough to know that this isn't a warm up, that he's going to get to enjoy Eggsy’s mouth as unhurriedly as his own body will let him, and that thought in itself is enough to make him groan out loud.

That amuses Eggsy, apparently, who spends a few beautifully torturous moments making a very grand show of running his tongue up Harry’s cock; of hollowing his cheeks when he sucks - eye contact all the while -  and of pushing Harry into the sides of his mouth enough for the bulge to be visible. It’s a good job the things that look the most exciting aren’t the ones that feel best; it’s all the mercy he’s afforded that he can savour a few moments, commit them to memory before he has to close his eyes.

The rawness of the pleasure, so much when Harry’s been made so hungry for it, is  just slightly blunted by alcohol so it's a heady, soft thing that sends electricity singing out under his skin, building up slowly but steadily, wave upon wave of static as Eggsy puts his mind to the task and loses himself. Then, where there had been the frisson of flirtation is only warm silence, punctuated by the occasional lewd slurping sound and the odd quiet moan from Eggsy. If that's performance it's appreciated and it's a bloody good one: he slides his mouth along Harry's cock like he's been gagging for it until he's gagging _on_ it, taking as much down his throat as his reflexes will allow and then still struggling to get more in. Harry is engulfed in searing wet heat, pouring all of his nerve into _don't move don't move don't move_ and Eggsy only makes a satisfied little ‘mm’ noise when he's got his lips all the way to the base of Harry's cock and is fighting not to choke around the head. It feels wonderful.

Harry cannot muster the ability to speak until Eggsy pulls off for air and then it hurts him to say it, but he'd really rather Eggsy not asphyxiate.

“You don't have to-”

“Don't worry, I can take it.” Harry knows he _can_ , it’s more that he doesn’t want him to feel like he has to. It’s gilding the lily: Harry’s spoilt by merely getting to look at him tonight, let alone having this perfect creature that he should be worshipping waiting on him hand and foot... “All part of the service,” Eggsy mumbles against the inside of his thigh. Harry's stomach vaults and he almost comes there and then.

“Christ, Eggsy, don't say things like that.”

“Why?” Eggsy grins up at him because he knows exactly why. He's always been able to read Harry like a particularly large print book with an audio guide, and he knows exactly what to say. “Like me down here dressed like this a bit too much, eh? Getting all hot and bothered about misusing the staff, abusing your status?” He gives him the pause of a couple of kisses around the root of Harry’s cock for the words to sink in, before he opens that pretty pink mouth again,tonguing at the head. “You gonna show me how pleased you are with your experience, Harry? Gonna come right down my throat?”

Harry manages to grumble though he feels like something low in his hips might burst trying to vault into an orgasm the rest of him isn’t ready for. “More concerned about the prospect of having a heart attack before I get to do any such thing.”

“Mm. Better sit back and take it easy then, while I finish you off.” The _Host with the Most_ voice is back. “Let me do the work, I'm here to make sure you have a good time.”

Harry gives up. On restraint, on his conscience, on dignity all together and grabs the back of Eggsy’s head as his own falls back in bliss. The image is so firmly seared into his mind’s eye that he no longer needs to look to see the bright white cuff at Eggsy’s wrist where he holds the base of Harry's cock, or to take in the shining muscle of his shoulders as he leans down to suck on him again but he doesn’t do that for long.

Once he realises Harry is hovering around orgasm he pulls away to draw Harry's pleasure from him with a skilled hand and the slip of his saliva, and his attention back to looking at him. Eggsy’s hand is that much stronger, that much more precise, that the slow burn his mouth was drawing out sparks quickly and Harry’s pleasure leaps a few storeys. Another pass of tongue, just to keep him wet enough and maybe renew the image of Eggsy's mouth open around Harry's straining cock, and then he gets back to working him with a quick loose grip, gaze flicking hungrily from Harry's cock to look him straight in the eyes and back, mouth open and tongue slightly forward as if that's in concentration but he knows exactly what he's doing. When Harry comes -  a blinding, searing flash of bliss that makes his toes curl in his bloody oxfords - it pulses in long stripes over Eggsy’s face, across his open lips and his wet pink tongue, dripping off the sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw and onto his collarbones.

A spot drops onto Eggsy’s starched collar and Harry groans at the sight of it, although his throat has dried out so all that comes out is a broken croak. He reaches over to neck the dregs of his now warm martini, which doesn't help one bit, before he returns to staring at Eggsy, perfect minimalism now debased with splatters of come.

Eggsy outright smirks.  “You alright there? You want a picture or something?”

Cocky little shit. Harry does, very much so, but Eggsy’s ego has had quite enough stroking for one day and Harry, slowly floating back down to reality, is giving due consideration to stroking something else. Not that he can voice it: he just sits, stunned, on the desk whilst he recovers his breath and higher brain function.

Eggsy wipes his face down with the bar towel from his kit and then flicks it out at Harry, laughing. It does serve to snap Harry into action and he manages to slip to the edge of the table and pull Eggsy to stand between his thighs for a kiss. For a ridiculously gullible moment he wonders if that's allowed and then he recovers his senses and he has not, in fact, hired Eggsy from some dubious party hosting agency and then somehow had the miraculous fortune to seduce him into breaking the rules. He bloody _lives_ with him, and the most he's paid for the pleasure of his company is the absolute fortune he goes through in semi skimmed. Still, he discovers he has a more than vested interest in making sure Eggsy doesn’t walk away from the experience wanting.

Harry slides his hand down between them to feel the rock hard heat pressing below the thick waxed cotton of the apron, kept neatly in check by something with a cord toe which he can only assume is some sort of modesty pouch. At last - and even with the spell broken, it feels naughty - he puts his hand up under the apron and runs his fingers around it, feeling the unmistakably hard cock beneath trapped in place by the thick seamed fabric.

“Gotta keep things in check, ain't ya,” says Eggsy by way of explanation.

Harry runs a firm finger along the line of Eggsy’s erection. ‘Occupational hazard, I suppose?’  He can only imagine how Eggsy might have felt, forced to display himself for the appraisal of strangers, and he might be a pervert but he can't imagine that never resulted in arousal, but Eggsy shakes his head.

“Nah.” It’s the usual offhand scoff, before it turns a little thoughtful, a little dark. “The occasional semi. All a bit too self conscious for that really but once in a while they'd be like… Like you are. Looking at me like they want to eat me alive.”

“Perhaps I will.” Post orgasm, Harry regains some of his wit and as such the upper hand, as Eggsy is that step behind and hard enough that Harry feels ‘desperate’ would be a fair description, and he might be just the tiniest bit smug about it. He leans in to kiss at Eggsy’s neck, to taste his sweat and murmur hotly in his ear. “Perhaps I'll spread you open, make you sweat all that oil off. Make a feast out of every bit of you you've spent all evening showing off, and you'll just have to wait until I get to the bits you haven't.” Though the spot his collar is covering seems, at this moment, the most tempting of all. “Would you like that?.”

Eggsy’s eyes flutter shut and he wets his lips with his tongue, all the swagger gone from him as he pushes softly forward into Harry's hand. “Yeah, sounds good. Just let me get dried off a bit so you’re not getting a mouthful of fuckin’ chip fat. This stuff is rank.”

“Appreciated. You're quite delicious enough.” Harry scrapes his teeth over the relatively dry skin of Eggsy’s neck and accepts that, as wonderful as he looks, the idea of a mouthful of whatever he’s smothered in is completely disgusting. “...but right now you smell like some unholy cross between roast potatoes and funfair doughnuts. No - Churros. And you know what would go well with that?”

Eggsy looks blankly at him, sinking his weight into the crook of Harry's arm, getting ready to do his best impression of a gay Mills and Boon cover when Harry inevitably dips and lifts him, closing in to whisper against his ear.

“Squirty cream.”

“Fuck off, Harry.”

It's awkward, carrying a fully grown man who's oiled up like a greased eel and shaking with laughter up a flight of stairs, but needs must. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feedback and whatnot always welcome. You can find me on tumblr under randomactsofviolence and I love making new friends.


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